Promises
by Ky03elk
Summary: What if there had never been a training exercise? What if those bullets were real? What if her words by the swings were nothing more than empty promises? AU during Valkyrie. 6x01.


I'm sorry, _really,_ but the scene where Beckett is shot breaks my heart every time in Valkyrie. This is the result - tragedy.

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* * *

The clouds move steadily overhead, creating shadows across the grass, and he can't help but stare down at the blades under foot. Their green brightness.

Shouldn't they be duller in color, be more faded, more welted, wouldn't that be more fitting?

On a day like today, shouldn't everything be just a little bit more dismal?

It shouldn't be sunny, he knows _that_. It should be overcast, a grey expanse of sky, heavy with its need to release droplets of water onto them all.

Shouldn't the sky be crying on a day like today? Shouldn't the rain join the moisture that is being wept by all who stand gathered here?

He feels a slight tagging against his arm, and Rick slowly turns his head, gazes intently down at the thin pale fingers that grasp his own larger ones. Stares, detached as his skin is pulled tight across his knuckles. Morbidly speculates to himself that maybe if they keep tugging hard enough, his skin will release, muscle will uncoil, and he can dissolve into nothing.

_He wishes for a moment he could dissolve into nothing._

His bicep is taut under the strain, his refusal to move, and his daughter finally turns, looks at him with sad, pitying eyes. She lets go of his hand to slide her arms around his frame, as if she could hold him together, as if she could make it better.

She whispers her words into his shirt, a dark black that corresponds with his mood, asks if he needs to stay, needs a moment more, and all he can manage is a slight nod.

Shifting back a fraction, she's engulfed by his mother, and he's grateful that he has her, has them both, but in this second it's not enough, and he just doesn't want them to know it.

He watches his family, the other people that had attended, as they gradually move across the green grass_–he's hated green grass for a while now_–observes them as they make their way out of cemetery, as they move on with their lives and it hits him again that he no longer has that choice.

Two short months ago, he had been down on one knee, asking for a life together. A life full of promises, because he couldn't imagine his life without her, now–now he doesn't have to imagine.

The wind is increasing, causing his hair to swirl and flap across his forehead, and he lifts a heavy hand to sweep it back. Begins taking the steps needed until he's positioned at the edge of the hole that encases Kate; so close to her, yet they've never been so far apart.

Slumping to the ground, knees curled and aching under his large frame, he's mind runs away for a moment. Recalls memories of skiing, birthdays, Bigfoot traps and swing sets. Forcing his eyes tightly shut, he doesn't know whether to wish for all the images to disappear, or to hope that they never leave him.

_She has left him._

The thought rips his heart open, his soul screaming in its despair, its agony. The pain feels so real, that he raises one hand to smooth across his chest, shifts it away so he can inspect his fingers for the bright red blood that doesn't exist. That should exist.

Why is there no blood, when the mere thought of tomorrow, the concept of having to continue without her, should in its self be enough to kill him?

Lying the rest of the way down, until his body is submerged completely within the blades of grass–his position replicating hers mere inches away–he closes his eyes again. He feels her necklace sliding across his skin, her rings catching on his shirt and he lingers on the thought that they were going to be _great_, D.C. was going to be _great_, yet somehow it's all managed to go so tragically wrong.

* * *

Edging her way to the corner of the building, Kate pauses, takes a breath to control her nerves, she's done this a thousand times before; different cities, different clothes, different partners, it doesn't change the fact–she's got this.

Weapon raised in front of her, she enters the alley, goes through the motions, ignores the small hairs on the back of her neck as they lift, stand to attention, as she feels the empty space behind her.

Where the hell is McCord?

For all of Castle's ability to drive her up the wall, at least when push came to shove, he was always behind her, following her lead, ready to back her up in any situation. And it hits her all over again. How much she misses him, how much she lies in bed at night contemplating how royally she may have screwed things up.

It's not because he's isn't standing by her side; late night phone calls, dirty texts at the most inappropriate times, his ring resting heavily between her breasts; it all confirms the fact that he is one hundred percent behind her choice, her shot at being something more than just a cop.

She's just forced to wonder if the regret she had anticipated at _not _taking this job, is now being overshadowed by the regret that has come _with _taking this job.

Narrowing her eyes, she forces herself to focus on the matter at hand, calls out to make her presence known, has to fight to remember that it's federal agent, not NYPD, as she continues stalking forward as he appears, hostage in hand.

Going through the standard procedure, with the added benefit of shiny new toys, she braces for the flash, her elbow slams repeatedly into his face as she successfully cuffs the Chechen man, pushes him against the dumpster as she turns to enquire about the hostage's welfare.

It's in that moment that Kate hears the accent and she realizes that it's all gone horribly wrong. In the second that it takes for her to turn her head, face the voice, she feels it.

She's familiar with what it is to have a bullet enter her chest. The heat tears through her skin, through her muscle, through her heart.

And as she hears the expulsion of another round, feels her body again shudder from the impact; the movement tips her backwards, and then there's nothing.

Nothing but the thought that she has failed him, that this would never had happened, if this was a New York alley, if he was beside her, if he was her partner.

The last feeling she registers, is her necklace slipping within her blood, rings being dragged through the mess. She had promised him a life together; she had promised him _always_, she just didn't realize that promises alone would never be enough.

* * *

Again, sorry.

All mistakes are mine, unlike the show!

Your comments are valued!


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